Dick Francis's Damage by Felix Francis Page B

million.”
    â€œTwenty thousand pounds is still a lot of money,” I said. At least it was for me. Twenty thousand pounds, all of it tax-free, was more than many people earned in a year, but for the likes of Ian Tulloch it might just be petty cash.
    â€œThe man might go to the newspapers,” said Charles Payne, another of the independent directors.
    â€œHe won’t,” I said decisively, but I looked around at skeptical faces in front of me. “Not if he’s in this for the money. As I said before, he’ll have spent months planning every single detail—it’s not easy, or cheap, to dope every horse at Cheltenham—and he’ll want a decent return for his trouble. There’s no way he would give up his trump card so easily.” They still didn’t look convinced. “He probably wants half a million. If he asks you for five million and you end up paying him half a million, then you’ll probably all believe you have a bargain, but he, in fact, will have gained everything that he’d hoped for in the first place. I’d maybe offer him less than twenty grand, perhaps only ten.”
    â€œHow do you know all this?” asked Bill Ripley in a tone that implied he didn’t really believe me.
    â€œI’ve completed several tours of Afghanistan as an army intelligence specialist. Much of my time was spent dealing with kidnapping in Helmand Province—mostly among the Afghanpeople. A child of one of the few remaining middle-class Afghans would be snatched either by the Taliban or, more often, by the corrupt police. The ransom demanded would always be for millions of dollars, a sum way beyond the means of even the richest parents. Offers and threats would pass back and forth until an amount was agreed upon that was acceptable to both sides. Sometimes it was only a few hundred dollars or maybe a few thousand. I was involved in many of those negotiations, sometimes face-to-face with the kidnappers. They were a source of essential intelligence, especially in learning who were our real friends, rather than those who would happily shoot us in the back as soon as we turned round.”
    â€œWhy did you leave the army?” It was Bill Ripley again.
    â€œI didn’t want to get killed,” I said. “I did three six-month tours inside four years and I didn’t fancy going back—too many of the bad guys knew me by then.”
    In truth, I’d been fortunate to get out alive from one particularly hairy situation in an Afghan house when hostage negotiations had rapidly gone tits up and guns had been drawn by both sides, most of them pointing at me. On top of that, a good mate of mine hadn’t been so lucky in a similar circumstance and he’d come home in a box.
    No one now questioned my assessment of the current situation.
    â€œTell us what to do,” said Roger Vincent.
    â€œPersonally, I’d probably call in the police. But if you won’t do that and I accept that position, then lets place a notice in the paper and wait for a response. Meanwhile, I’ll try to find out how he did it and stop it happening again at Ascot.”
    â€œWhat do you need from us?”
    â€œI assume from his demeanor that Crispin Larson is aware of the situation.”
    â€œHe’s aware of the test results,” said Roger Vincent, “but not the letter.”
    â€œI’ll need his help to find out how the doping was done. And he should be made aware of the letter. He has one of the best analytical minds I know. We could all do with his help.”
    Roger Vincent looked around the table and received a series of nods.
    â€œThat’s agreed,” he said. “But no one else.”
    â€œWhat shall we tell the staff?” Howard Lever asked no one in particular.
    â€œTell them that you were concerned about a leak of confidential material to a newspaper,” I said, “and you are now happy that the source of the leak has